Children of Mercury
by Swank
Summary: Harry Potter defeated Voldemort in his seventh year... or did he? Voldemort is once more on the rise, and when a member of the Order is murdered, the Muggle and Wizarding worlds collide in a way they have never done before. Dark.
1. Prologue

Hi there! This is my first Harry Potter fanfic, although not my first fanfic altogether. At the beginning of this story, and maybe for the first quarter or so, the chapters will alternate between the Wizarding world and the Muggle world – this means that there will be whole chapters with virtually no Harry Potter characters. These chapters will deal with original characters in an original crime lab in Great Britain. As I live in the United States, this crime lab will have procedures I am familiar with, so if you're British and happen to work in a crime lab and notice some inconsistencies, bear with me. Pretend that Americans established this crime lab.  Also, please note that this is **not a CSI/Harry Potter crossover. **My crime lab is original and the situations in it will be much more realistic than in the TV show (although I do love the TV show.) That being said, I shall now bring you into the dreaded disclaimer!

I don't own any recognizable characters, locations, or situations from the Harry Potter series. I also don't own the any real crime labs, or the wonderful people who work in them. That would make me some sort of strange fantasy-book stealing slave owner, which I most definitely am not.

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**Children of Mercury - Prologue**

The cold had no respite. It seeped into every crack and crevice, reaching with clammy fingers as it sought to leech the warmth out of every living thing that walked the street outside the Ministry of Magic. That night, even the homeless had abandoned their doorways and park benches for more secure shelter against the late autumn chill, faint eyes watching the goings-on outside from their respite in open lobbies and telephone booths. A single unassuming cat was all that prowled the cracked sidewalk, and it jerked with fright as one dim, wavering figure exited the disguised magical headquarters in a rush. The woman clutched a woven handbag to her side, fingers rapidly tightening and loosening on the heavy cloth as though seeking some form of reassurance from its garish pattern. The steady clip of her shoes against the sidewalk echoed uncannily through the street as she walked, head bowed against the prying wind.

The safest apparation point was in an abandoned warehouse only a five-minute's walk away; this she knew. She also knew that it would be terribly unwise to try to disapparate anywhere else, for fear that prying Muggle eyes would catch something terribly and inexplicably alien. Also known to her was that fact that the Floo Network was once more being monitored; again Ministry eyes had begun searching in paranoia for any semblance of suspicious activity. What she didn't know was that someone else also knew about this safe point, one who was unwanted, and waiting…

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A slow, drizzling rain had started, and it thrummed lazily on the metal roof of the warehouse, bringing welcome white noise to the claustrophobic night air. Adem Kludde paid no attention. He had a job to do, and he did it quickly, efficiently. Starting at one end of the deserted interior, he lightly touched the tip of his wand to the corner of the room nearest him, whispering inaudibly. A fine, hardly visibly white thread of light emerged from the wand-tip and clasped itself to the metal wall. Kludde allowed himself a triumphant smirk; anti-disapparation jinxes were ridiculously difficult, but this one was _strong_, strong enough to last a few hours, at least. With gentle care he pulled the wand away from the wall; the thread stretched easily, and he ran it around the perimeters of the room, adhering it to the cold walls every few feet until he had made a complete circuit. Ever so lightly he touched his wand to the point where the line of light started, and closed the rectangle. The thread flared briefly, sharply glowing silver in the darkness, before fading completely. The spell was complete.

With a satisfied sigh Kludde settled himself into a corner of the warehouse, tenderly rubbed a tattoo on his forearm, and waited.

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She could see the warehouse. It was only a few hundred yards away, and her footsteps quickened, unbidden by her conscious mind as she squeezed the bag that held her precious cargo. As the woman rapidly approached the looming doorway, Lupin's parting words echoed in her ears…

_This is our last hope. We have nothing left to lose._

_We have nothing left to live for, either,_ her own voice interrupted, and she twisted her face wryly. The woman stepped inside the doorway, still preoccupied with her inner thoughts, and disapparated.

Correction: _tried _to disapparate.

_What the…_

She blinked and centered herself once more, confused at the futility of her first attempt. As she focused on vanishing a second time, she felt it - a tiny, impenetrable thread, wrapped chokingly tight around her inner pool of magic.

_Disapparation jinx. Someone is here._

As if they had been lying in wait, panic and bile rose steadily in her throat. Her diaphragm tightened almost painfully, breath quickening, heart thudding, _roaring,_ in her ears. Before she even had a chance to reach for her wand and dash for the exit, a soft, silvery voice pierced firmly through the darkness.

"_Expelliarmus." _

Instantly she was flung into the air and slammed into the opposite wall. The dim sensation of her wand soaring out of her jacket pocket was bludgeoned aside by the sharp pain of ribs cracking under the impact as her left side made contact. She slid down to the ground, but before she even had time to react the voice rang out a second time, and with the new spell came a sudden unbidden thought.

_I have never before known pain._

Her breath _whooshed_ out as the spell hit, and she jerked like a caught fish. She knew that pain comes in waves, it was supposed to, it _always did_, it was right and natural and everyone felt it, but _this_ pain was not right and natural. _This_ pain came unrelenting, a harsh tidal wave that went on and on without respite, on and on and on and on-

_I have never before-_

She couldn't scream; her muscles violently contracted and released on their own accord, lungs pumping wildly. Surely he could hear her heart beating – it was the loudest sound _she _could hear – the only other was the sound of her limbs slapping against the concrete floor and the harsh, mechanical gasping of her breath.

_I have never-_

She would kill her father, she would join the Death Eaters, she would murder and lie and cheat if only it would _stop_, even for just a second of rest, just one second – _pleaseohpleaseohpleasekillmenow_

The man was laughing. It sounded like he was an engaging host at a sociable dinner party, with nice even chuckles radiating appreciatively around the dining table and washing over her wildly thrashing form. She saw him step closer, watched him through streaming eyes. He smiled down at her as if she were a precocious child. At a twitch of his wand the muscles in her back contracted with sudden ferocity; her spine arched until only the back of her head and her heels were touching the floor, and she balanced, twitching. The woman leered as her facial muscles followed soon after and tightened viciously, lips pulling back in a painful grimace, eyes open as wide as they possibly could-

_I-_

The man raised his wand.

_Killmekillmekillme-_

Without even removing the Cruciatus Curse first, Adem Kludde granted Nymphadora Tonk's last wish.

"_Avada kedavra." _

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He retrieved the bag where it had fallen from her shoulder during his disarming spell. After slicing it open with a pocketknife, he dumped the contents out onto the floor and shuffled through them haphazardly. Tense moments passed, his back hunched over the miscellaneous array, the only sounds being the fading rain and his frantic breath. Finally, after tossing aside a packet of tissues followed by a tube of lipstick, he found it.

With shaking hands the Death Eater removed a small, ornate wooden box from the pile. It was very old – the wood, though highly polished, had lost some of its natural cherry color, and the gold-wrought runes that traced their way along its lid had tarnished considerably. It stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the items from the bag, all of which had been decidedly feminine and all too commonplace. After fingering the hinges for a moment, Kludde pocketed his prize and departed. Pure, stifling silence returned to the warehouse once more as the rain passed, leaving the shell of what once had been Tonks to cool quickly, blanketed by the chilly autumn air.

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About six hours later, crime scene analyst Holly Noble was woken up abruptly by the sound of her phone ringing.

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**A/N**: Ha ha, I know what you guys are all thinking… 'That bitch killed Tonks! Let's get her!' Ah well. You'll get over it.

This chapter might be a little shorter than the next ones, so if you think it was too short, keep in mind that it is only a prologue. However, I can't guarantee anything, as I haven't typed up any other chapters. All your questions will be answered…

Also, sorry if the flow in this one isn't quite smooth enough. I haven't written in a while, so I'm still getting back in my game. My rustiness makes me angry, but I'll get better as time progresses.

Oh, and if you ever think that this story should be upped to an 'M', just let me know. I'm not sure how much violence might constitute an 'M.'

That being said… REVIEW! I thrive on reviews. They are better than double-fudge cookies. And I love my double-fudge cookies like no other.


	2. Chapter 1

Less description today, more dialogue. Sorry to those who like description, and you're welcome to those who like dialogue. Ha ha. On another note – **you are all getting a science lesson today! Woo! Vocabulary words: strychnine, rigor mortis, livor mortis, lividity, vitreous humor. I am hellbent on expanding the knowledge everyone has of forensic science!**

starsorcerous: Thank you so much for your awesome review! It made my day! I'm also terribly flattered that you added me to your favorites. Squee!

the pawn shoppe heart: Yes, Vic, I knew it was you even before you told me. And I plan on boggling your little minds with forensic detail! Yehaw!

Disclaimer: I no own you no sue.

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**Children of Mercury – Chapter 1**

It was four in the morning. The stars had pulled themselves awkwardly over the horizon, glimmering meekly through the nighttime fog of the city. Their light was dim and sickly looking, as though shining through a haze of cigarette smoke, and if she had taken the time to look outside before going to bed the evening before, she wouldn't have liked it. However, Holly Noble had not taken the time to look at the stars in a while now. At the moment she was half-sleeping in her modest urban flat, sprawled out on top of the covers on her bed, eyes half open in a cloud of exhaustion. The previous night she had consumed unmentionable amounts of red wine and whiskey in celebration of her first day off in two weeks – the day that was about to dawn in about two and a half hours. Unwilling to commit her day of freedom to an enormous hangover, Holly had drunk about a gallon of water and taken two aspirin before going to bed, but neither had done their job as of yet.

It was four in the morning, and her telephone was ringing. Holly snapped out of her reverie with a start, spread-eagled and gasping like a fish out of water. It took several more rings before she had recovered enough to scrabble blindly for the phone in the dark, and a few seconds of silence longer before she was sufficiently responsive to answer.

"Noble." She winced. Her voice was raw, garbled, and about an octave lower than usual. She heard a male chuckle and a couple of voices calling to each other in the background.

"Is Holly there?" the voice said sarcastically. "I didn't know she had a date last night."

"Shut up," she snarled, passing the phone to her other ear and twisting the cord through her fingers. Male voice. It took her a second to connect the voice to the name.

"All in due time. Anyway, you're probably wondering why I'm calling at this ungodly hour…"

Holly rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

"…but we really need you here. We're tapped out." The voice paused, and Holly was silent for a few moments. Then:

"Jesus, Archie! It's my day off!"

Archie grumbled. "Weren't you listening to me? _We're tapped out. _Almost the whole shift can't come in, and graveyard is running on fumes already. Marcie has the flu, and Rob's on mandatory leave for burnout, remember?"

"What about Paver?" she demanded, clutching the phone to her ear and sitting up higher in bed.

"In Kent for his mom's funeral." Holly made a small _oh_. "And Clark – get this – his girlfriend dumped him last night, right after he bought her a fancy dinner, too. So, yeah, I called him and he was a _wreck_, moaning like a damn zombie, so I figured he wouldn't be too focused on a case right now-"

"Bullshit!"

"I know. But what can you do?" Holly could almost hear him shrug across the phone line. She tapped the side of the phone with her fingernails, then turned and looked out the window. The sky had lightened somewhat to a murky grey. She sighed.

"Fine. But you owe me. I want this counting as overtime."

"I knew you'd come around." He gave her directions before hanging up. Holly moaned dramatically and rolled off her bed onto the floor.

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She arrived at the scene by four-fifteen. In a desperate attempt to look as if she hadn't been woken up less than a half hour previous after a night of hard drinking, Holly had opened all the windows, letting the cold early morning air graze past her cheekbones and whip her dark brown hair around her face until she was as wide awake as to be expected. She had also blasted the music from a rock radio station that was having some sort of Led Zeppelin marathon, although she didn't know if that as to wake her up or make her feel like she had some company in her mildly angry, rebellious mood. As she pulled up to the scene (in an old warehouse, it appeared) she saw a number of policemen milling about and one darkly suited detective waving his arms wildly at her. She pulled to a stop and flipped off the radio with some reluctance. Robert Plant's crooning came to an abrupt halt, and Detective Archer Roach jogged over to her company-issued SUV. She slid out of the driver's seat, popping a mint into her mouth.

"Caucasian female, twenty-five to thirty," he said, gesturing at the warehouse glowing fluorescent yellow with police tape. Holly let him take her elbow as he led her over to the check-in table.

"Homicide?" she inquired, furrowing her brow. They reached the folding card table that served as a check-in point to the warehouse where a round-faced policeman was cheerfully scribbling down the name of everyone that entered and exited the building. She flashed her badge at him with a certain degree of sarcasm, and he winked at her as both Holly and Roach continued on.

"That's for you to decide," the detective said, lifting up the crime scene tape so that she could enter the warehouse. "It's hard to tell. Could be suicide." She nodded. Roach had been grinning since he had first helped her out of the car, and now it became even more pronounced.

"What?" she demanded indignantly, wondering if she really looked as pathetic as she felt.

"I think you're going to have fun on this one," he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excited child. "You haven't had one of these for a while."

Holly was about to ask what he meant until her eyes adjusted to the light inside the warehouse and she finally saw what Roach was talking about.

"Damn!" she exclaimed, drawing out the word until it sounded as if it had multiple syllables. Roach just smirked.

In the center of the warehouse and slightly off to one side was the body of a young woman. Scattered around her were miscellaneous items that looked as if they belonged in a woman's purse, and off to one side was an empty bag. That, however, was not the reason for Holly's awed curse. The victim was positioned on her back, muscles taut and stretched, back fully arched. Only her heels and the back of her head touched the concrete floor, and on her face was a classic example of a death leer. Her open eyes had clouded. The scene looked like something from a horror movie, a grim – and terribly accurate – vision of death.

"So…" Archie said, twisting his lips wryly. "I take it you're thinking what I'm thinking."

Holly nodded. "Classic strychnine poisoning. You're right, I haven't had one of these in a while." She began circling the warehouse, studying the body with practiced eyes. A crime scene photographer was flitting around the corpse, taking pictures from all angles, and she eyed his movements, making sure he didn't contaminate any evidence. Suddenly, her walking came to a halt, and she craned her neck back at the detective. "Who found it?"

"A nightshift worker was taking her dog out for a walk. The dog smelled something, pulled the leash. Luckily, she managed to harness him in before he touched the body. She's been excluded, by the way."

"Ah." Holly continued her circling. "Body been declared?"

Roach shook his head. "Beth should be here soon." Holly raised an eyebrow. Beth was the primary forensic pathologist, and while she occasionally came to a crime scene to evaluate it, it was almost always another person's job – the forensic investigator's, to be exact – to declare a body officially deceased. "Why is Beth coming?"

"Because, as Roach will have already told you, we're tapped out!" A cheerful voice rang through the warehouse, and the pair whirled around. Beth Schmidt, MD, was a cheerful woman of thirty-seven with pale blonde hair and a petite build, almost dwarfed by the forensic kit she was lugging along towards them. "Alex," she referred to the forensic investigator, "is at the hospital. His wife went into labor twelve hours ago." She dropped the kit with a thunk, placed her hands on her hips, and surveyed the body. "Hey! You didn't tell me it was a poisoning!"

"It was a surprise. What can you tell us?" Roach inquired, glancing at the physician.

Beth shrugged. "Well, the position," she waved her hand at the arched figure, "corresponds with strychnine or a similar toxin. Strychnine prevents the chemical 'off switches' for the muscles from being properly recognized, leading to painful muscle spasms and, eventually, the _bow position_ and death."

"Victims die from asphyxia," Holly finished, "because the muscles in the chest contract tightly, preventing the victim from being able to take in a breath." Beth nodded and squatted next to the body. The photographer indicated he was finished and backed away to take photos of the bag.

"Homicide or suicide?" inquired Roach.

"Strychnine is rarely used for suicide because it's very painful, but for someone who didn't do their research, who knows?" Beth said, examining the corpse's eyeballs. "As for homicide… why would a murderer take someone out into a warehouse, or follow them there, just to poison them? Wouldn't it be easier to just slash their throat, or shoot them, or something?"

"Unless this is only a secondary scene," Holly pointed out, joining Beth next to the corpse. "She might have been poisoned somewhere else, and moved."

"I don't think so. Usually, the concentration of lactic acid and ATP in a corpse changes gradually, and it is this change that sends them into rigor mortis. They don't get completely stiff for at least ten hours or so. It's all a different ballgame with strychnine. Strychnine victims go into rigor almost immediately after death because of the high concentration of lactic acid and low amounts of ATP left in their muscles from the spasms. It would be very difficult – almost impossible – to transport a body in rigid bow position without being noticed. Also…" Beth dropped off, bent her head, and pulled down a bit of the victim's jacket and shirt at the nape of her neck. What looked like a purple-blue bruise spanned all the lower regions of the corpse. She then lifted the shirt at the side and examined the woman's armpit, followed by her shoulder blades, the sides of her ribs, and the small of her back, all of which possessed the same discoloration in varying shades of darkness.

Holly stayed silent and watched the woman work, relaying all she knew about lividity in her mind. A voice in the back of her head droned like a textbook. _Also known as livor mortis, lividity is the discoloration on the skin of a corpse that results from the sinking of blood in its vessels. In a stationary corpse, lividity follows gravity and sinks down into the lowest regions of the body, where it eventually settles into a permanent bruise. However, lividity can be changed before it sets. If a body were rolled, for example, lividity would start to settle on the opposite tide of the corpse, resulting in a discoloration on both the top and bottom of the body._

"No, she wasn't moved. Lividity," Beth gestured toward the discoloration that covered the corpse's back, "is only on the lower regions, not the top, sides, or anywhere else. This girl stayed on her back from the moment she died."

"Well, this is all fascinating," Roach said dryly, trying to absorb the technical jargon, "but I really need an answer for the Sheriff." He was the only one who hadn't sat down by the corpse, and was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Holly relished this and was about to make fun, but something caught her eye.

"Hey," she said, snapping on a pair of latex gloves and squinting down at the empty bag on the other side of the body. "This has been slashed open. The ends of the weave along the cut end evenly." Without touching anything, she took a quick inventory of the bag's contents that were still scattered across the floor, eyes flicking back and forth rapidly.

"I think we can rule out suicide," Holly declared, standing up. "There's nothing of worth here. Keys, tissues, lipstick – she's been robbed."

"And murdered with strychnine?" Beth finished incredulously, raising her eyebrows. "I find that hard to believe."

"Hard to believe or not, that's what the sheriff will be hearing." Roach clapped his hands conclusively. "Farewell, ladies! I trust you can handle this." With a final uneasy glance at the body, he swept out of the warehouse. Beth pursed her lips at him.

"He's creeped out, you know," she whispered conspiratorially in Holly's direction. "I don't think he's had a body that's smiled at him before."

The investigator shrugged. "I suppose it is a little… disconcerting." Disconcerting was an understatement. The corpse's wide, clouded eyes glimmered at them eerily, and its grin was decidedly painful. Holly could have counted every one of her teeth. She put that out of her mind and tore her thoughts back to business.

"Can you tell me how long she's been dead?"

"Hard to say," Beth mused. "It's cold in here, so a core temperature reading might mean nothing. I'll do it just in case. I can't get anything off her stage in rigor because of the strychnine – we'll have to wait until she begins to loosen up to know how long she's been rigid. Right now I think I can only base a definite time frame from lividity." Holly nodded and began collecting fibers off the body, occasionally sneaking a glance at the other woman.

First Beth slid an instrument resembling a meat thermometer into the victim's abdomen, stopping when she reached the liver. There was a brief pause. It was a strange scene, Holly realized; a woman such as Beth, so vibrant, so full of life, working with such supreme concentration over something so still and cold and unmoving and _dead_.

_Not a thing,_ a tiny voice in the back of her head reminded her. _She's not a thing. She's a person. She was alive, once. You _always _forget about that._

Holly furrowed her brow and moved to collect the scattered contents of the woman's purse into their own evidence bags for future dusting. Beth read out the temperature.

"Eighty-six."

Next, the pathologist began pressing her latex-covered thumb along various points on the woman's back and side. Keeping firm pressure on the purple flesh, Beth waited several seconds before pulling her hand away. There, on the lividity, the faintest pale impression of Beth's thumb remained before fading once more to nothingness. She repeated this process several times, starting in the light upper regions before gradually working down to where the lividity was the darkest shade. Satisfied, she sat back on her heels.

"Lividity blanches, but barely. She's just about fixed. Combined with the core temp, I'd say your girl has been dead five to eight hours." She stood and grinned at Holly. "Sorry I can't narrow it down for you further."

"You piece of Schmidt," joked Holly, picking up the lipstick tube and placing it gingerly into a bag.

"Ha, ha," commented Beth dryly, moving toward the warehouse door. "Like I haven't heard _that one _before." She signaled the coroner waiting outside, who moved forward with his team. "Anyway, I can get a potassium test on her vitreous humor once we're back at the lab. Might help us knock off a few hours." She watched mildly as the team struggled to put the awkward corpse in a body bag. "Use a sheet, boys, she's not going to fit in that – and for God's sake, don't close her eyes! I'm testing those later!"

Holly smirked. "You staying?"

"Nah, I'm going back with the body. See you." Beth waved, picked up her kit again, and moved to depart.

"Bye." She watched mildly as the crew exited and was checked out at the card table.

"Guess it's just you and me, then," she muttered wryly, collecting together some mud clods from the concrete floor and sliding them into evidence bags.

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An hour later, Holly had finished with the scene. Resigning herself to a long day at the lab, she pulled herself into her SUV, turned on the radio, and smiled. The Led Zeppelin marathon was still going on.

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Meanwhile, at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, London, the members of the Order of the Phoenix were on the verge of nervous breakdown.

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**A/N: **Well, this chapter was fun to write. Your brains are probably exploding from science overload. I apologize.

Review review review!


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